Rose-Colored Jello

Gaudéte in Dómino semper: íterum dico, gaudéte.

Rejoice in the Lord always; again I say, rejoice!

Phillippians 4:4

At the vigil Mass last night the priest spoke of the special significance the rose-colored candle and vestments for this Third Sunday of Advent have for him personally. He was four years old in December of 1941, a prisoner of the Third Reich. His father was a Canadian trade commissioner stationed in Oslo, and following the invasion of Norway in 1940, the entire family spent two years in internment camps in Germany before a prisoner exchange was eventually arranged.

Largely cut off form the world, the internees did receive Red Cross aid packages, the most prized of which were the ones sent from Canada. And during that bleak Christmas season, one such package contained an unheard-of delicacy: rose-colored Jello. The happiness of that rare treat, the hope it gave him, the joy with which it filled his child's heart—these memories were clearly still alive and vivid for him nearly seventy years later.

His connection of his story with the joyful hope we celebrate this day, this season, reminded me that as a Christian I am called to be focused on hope and joy. Despair and anger are not valid responses for me. Through whatever trials and hardships we are enduring, I can and must look forward to the joys to come, both the joys of the better tomorrows that I continue to believe are coming, and the untold joy of the eschaton which is the object of our ultimate hope.

Red Balloon, White Rose

There are plenty of covers, but I still shiver a bit as I lie in bed. The thermostat has been set at 62º for days now, and those six degrees definitely makes a noticeable difference. Maybe I'll have to bring a few more blankets down and pile them on the hide-a-bed. I finally put a nail in the living room wall above the computer, and now my Big Dead Jesus (a.k.a. the large crucifix that creeps her out) hangs prominently in my line of sight. It is comforting, I guess. This living room is starting to feel like home.

Above me a red balloon rests against the ceiling, as it has for nine days now. Eleven days ago the Boy and I went to the florist to get a single white rose, as requested. They offered him a balloon, and so home we came with it. Of course it immediately caused trouble with a little brother who wanted it but couldn't have it, so it quickly ended up locked in a closet, pleasing no one. The Boy wanted to pack it, but I convinced him that was impractical.

As I wandered through the vacated home last Saturday, I saw it and brought it down to be part of my growing nest in the living room. It has lasted remarkably well, far exceeding any expectations I had. It is a bit reduced the last couple of days, but still looks taut and strong. The rose, too, still blooms, standing in the French press carafe on the kitchen counter, the closest thing to a vase that we brought with us. I wonder how long it will last before it droops and wilts. Maybe long enough.

Lonely snow

First snow in Ottawa today. Not much, just a coating on cars and roofs, mostly, but it stayed cold enough that even at evening rush hour I could still see cars with ice and snow sliding off their roofs and trunks.

And though the purple sled sits ready in the garage, there is no little boy to ask eagerly about its employment. There is no little voice full of excitement at the window, no one shouting "Look, Daddy, snow!" over and over again, while I nod and say "Yes, that's right; it snowed." Instead, I am alone in a silent house, silent save for whatever noise I choose to make or what tunes I elect to crank up. Everyone else is gone. And they are not coming back.

It is hard to fathom the immensity of this development. Watching them walk through the gate at the airport was devastating, even though I knew it was the only right choice for us to make. Now they are all safe, with family, being cared for and loved, far from this land that, through no real malice, proved so inhospitable to out fragile little family.

I am gradually becoming studious again, pushing the pain and terror to the background, trusting in the wisdom of others. I am determined to finish what I have started, if at all possible. Even though everything has changed suddenly, one thing is unaltered: all our plans and dreams of the future are predicated on my completion of this course of studies. I don't intend to plunge blindly ahead, but if at all possible, then I needs must continue somehow through these next three years in order to make possible the better life that we have imagined together for our young family.

But only time will tell.

A violet fluid

Breaking out of a years-long hazelnut rut, I just tried -- and loved -- a violet latte at the J&S on Thomas and Hamline. I got a bit of a double-take from the solitary barista when I ordered, leading me to believe that she must not make a lot of that particular permutation, but the delicious result has certainly made me eager to try other flavors going forward, even when the choices are not quite so exotic (I could have also tried lavender).

Budget permitting, of course, I am looking forward to spending some regularly-scheduled time in various coffee shops in the coming months as I work to get my writerly groove back in preparation for my upcoming adventure into an MFA writing workshop beginning in January.As the household/family routines (bedtimes, nutritious evening meals, sufficient sleep for parents, et cetera) gradually fall into place, my creative routines will, I am grateful to report, be next on the list to be acknowledged, accommodated, and encouraged. (My historical preference is to write in bars, but pints still seem to demand a higher price point than espresso drinks. Sad, but true.)

Squidginess: chronic or reversible?

I am not a fit person; I never have been. Oh, I was a slip of a thing in my youth, but scrawn does not really equal fitness. Never quite reaching six feet, I was a wispy 143 pounds when I started college, where I managed to gain sixteen pounds by the end of my first semester, twenty-three pounds by the time we broke for summer. I enjoyed the mandatory Phys Ed course, especially my first experience with weight training. By the end of two months I was able to bench-press 95 pounds (more than half my body weight, mind you), and felt more physically confident than ever before in my young life.

But it was not a routine I was capable of maintaining. I kept sporadically active throughout the rest of college, particularly enjoying intense games of racquetball with a few good friends. Regularly scheduled physical endeavors never lasted for long, however. Why? My explanation is that, growing up a country boy, there was never any need for me to seek out physical activity; the whole day was full of it, from throwing hay bales to milking goats to the mile-long walk to the mailbox and back (seriously). And when I wasn't doing chores around the farm, I was excavating pits in the grove with a shovel or breaking large rocks into hand specimens with a sledgehammer for my collection. Why would I need to exercise? When would I have the time, or the energy?

Unfortunately this was not a mindset I could easily shrug off when my lifestyle changed dramatically to an urban existence. By the time I had graduated and worked in retail for half a decade (including at least a year where my work lunches consisted of two doughnuts and a quart of chocolate milk) my waistline had expanded several inches, and my face was so round that I have difficulty recognizing myself in photos from that period. Then the Boy was born, the fiscal belt for our household was excruciatingly tightened, and to save the money spent on bus fare I began walking the two and a half miles to work each day, and frequently walking back home as well at the end of my shift. Combined with a dramatic reduction in calories (not only where the doughnuts out of the question, but food in general took on something resembling scarcity), this summer of privation was characterized by one colleague as the "Frog Daddy Less Input, More Output Plan", and the pounds literally fell away. On the eve of our son's birth I weighed myself in the hospital at two hundred twelve pounds avoirdupois (or fifteen stone two, for our British readers). By August I was a more familiar one hundred seventy pounds, a drop of more than forty pounds in just seven months without any real effort, just force of circumstance.

Life has eased a great deal, and having learned no real lessons apparently, I have gradually swelled to a more generous girth than I find entirely pleasant or practical. This time, I really want to push myself to actually build up healthy habits of both eating and activity. I am starting with daily push-ups, trying to build up to a solid number of steady, confident reps. I have plans to start stretching extensively twice a day, in addition to my pedestrian commute each day (about three miles round trip). And more vegetables, less meat, nothing fried in my diet. It is a slow, sporadic process, but I have real hope that I can gradually push myself to become, if not a brand new me, at the very least a me I can take out in public again.

Fourth

I have fond memories of the Fourth of July as a child: going out to the golf corse, my little brother falling asleep on the same picnic blanket every year and staying up with my mom to watch the fireworks. We weren't just watching fireworks: we were describing our world, trying to devise the perfect name for each one. There were easy ones like popcorn and the slightly more interesting blueberry cobbler and prom dress and my favorites screaming yellow zonkers and fizzing mimis.

It wasn't just fireworks; my mom helped me capture sunsets. When I was older I switched dance studios and my lessons took us from our small town to the next following the sunset. They were all so beautiful I wouldn't want to go inside for my lesson. So the ride there was filled with descriptive phrases my mom would copy down while she waited to drive me home again.

I see now how vital it was for her to keep her hand in writing/describing everything from fireworks to family vacations, but I reaped the benefits of closely observing my world and solidifying each precious moment by our descriptions. At the same time never losing the wonder and awe that I could never encompass or remember it all. Eventually, I saw the value in that lesson, too.